For your sake, I hope you watched the Open at Carnoustie, Scotland this past week because it was great theater. It started with Sergio Garcia’s amazing 65 in the first round and his declaration that he wanted to win one for Seve Ballesteros, and for three and a half rounds it looked like he would do just that. But unlike Ben Crenshaw when he won the 1995 Masters for his mentor Harvey Penick, Sergio failed to call his shot, and by the time he made the turn on Sunday his lead had disappeared.
Then came Andres Romero, looking all of twelve years old, with ten birdies, a two shot lead and only two holes to play. You could see the headlines, “Second Argentinean Wins Major.” It was Snoopy striking out Joe DiMaggio; Russell Crow out rebounding Bill Russell; and Carl Lewis losing the 100-meter sprint to Jerry Lewis. Unfortunately, by the end of the day, the stars realigned themselves and young Mr. Romero shot three over on the last two holes.
However, throughout the day Irishman Padraig Harrington stalked the course with the relentless steadiness that he is famous for. Hole after hole Padraig watched each pretender fall by the wayside one-by-one until he alone stood at the top of the mountain. This would be his moment. This would be the return of Irish and European golf. Standing on the 18th tee he could almost hear the cheering emanating from his favorite pub in County Cork. Then with the ghost Jean Van de Velde lurking in the tall grass, and Harrington home free with a three shot lead, he unexplainably pulled out his driver.
At that point there was only two possible outcomes. The first was a fabulous long drive down the middle directly toward the Claret Jug and immortality, or the second which was a miserable miss hit that comes tantalizing close to accidentally skipping across the bridge only to hit the railing and fall hopelessly into the water.
Well, it wouldn’t have been nearly as exciting if he had hit it 285 yards down the middle, would it?
But Padraig was not through. He had another chance at immortality. His three shot lead was now basically two and all he had to do was take his drop, then lay up his third shot, hit his fourth shot on the green and two putt for all the glory. Simple enough. But for some reason, and to everyone’s amazement, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a long iron and proceeds to hit a second ball into the water. Suddenly his Irish brogue was sounding very French and the ghost of Jean Van de Velde was about to be replaced by an Irishman.
When the smoke had cleared Padraig was one stroke behind Sergio Garcia, who appeared to be waiting to make good on his promise to Seve. All that stood between him and keeping his promise was the 18th hole at Carnoustie.
By now, sitting in front of my television sipping on a Diet Dr. Pepper and munching on a Pringle, my own emotions had been torn asunder and I couldn’t imagine what Sergio and Padraig were feeling. It had already been Friday The Thirteenth III and I didn’t know if I could stand Jason coming back to life one more time. Go ahead Sergio, bring back my faith in the golf gods, make par and they’ll start writing songs about you in Spain, Dreams Do Come True.
He had used a Tiger-like Old Course strategy of playing it safe all week and hitting long irons off many of the dangerous tees; now all he had to do was make two more swings, two putts and his place in golf history would be secure. I bet the mayor of his hometown had already started mapping out the route for the parade.
The number one handicap hole at Carnoustie is the 499 yard 18th. The burn swings across the fairway twice, once at about 209 yards and the second time only twenty yards from the green. For Garcia, with a one shot lead there was no need to do anything foolish like hit a driver, so smartly he pulled out his trusty 3-iron, the one that had served him so well all week long. He would place it safely in the middle of the fairway and make a second shot onto the green, two putts and start celebrating. But the golf gods had one more trick up their sleeves. Sergio would have to stand on the tee and wait fifteen minutes before hitting his tee shot. Fifteen minutes to think about it.
Perhaps it wasn’t the ghost of Jean Van de Velde that caused Sergio to hit his tee shot fat resulting in his ball being about twenty yards short of where he had intended, but he was still in the fairway, a long ways away, but nonetheless, in the fairway.
It was at that point that I knew one of difference between me a Sergio Garcia, you see, I’ve always know that the golf Gods had a sick sense of humor, so I was not surprised when Sergio had to wait another fifteen minutes to hit his second shot. And I don’t care who you are, standing there waiting for fifteen minutes to hit your second shot for the Open Championship is difficult beyond belief. Not surprisingly, it was not Sergio’s best shot that found the bunker in front of the green, but even as the golf gods snickered, he was still not dead. All he needed to do is to hit the bunker shot close, one putt and start counting the $1,542,450, but it was not to be.
After Sergio missed the ten-foot putt to win, he was devastated, and who could blame him. He was one inch left from immortality and failed. Sure, there was a four-hole playoff, but it’s hard to play those last four holes with a stake in your heart.
As I sat there in my easy chair emotionally drained, I felt for Sergio and Andres Romero and all of the others that had a shot and came up short. Wow, I thought, this was a great golf tournament; an emotional roller coaster with incredible ebb and flow and Tiger wasn’t even on the first page of the leader-board. Is that possible, a great golf tournament without Tiger in contention? I guess the answer is yes.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
Tiger Woods And The Dangers Of Looking Human
A buddy and me were shooting pool and drinking beer one day, when he asked me, “Why aren’t we rich?”
Being the sage that I am I answered, “Because it’s 2:30 on Tuesday afternoon and we’re shooting pool and drinking beer instead of working.”
Okay, now imagine that you’re Tiger Woods and you look down at your bank account and you see $100,000,012.54. Are you tempted to roll over and hit the snooze alarm for ten years or so? To me, that has always been the real difference between Tiger Woods and everybody else; he never seemed to reach for the snooze alarm. He is not only the most talented player in the world; he is also one of the hardest workers, as well.
But are things changing?
For almost two years now Tiger seems to be a little out of sync, and that’s understandable. First, there was his marriage, then the death of his father, and now the birth of his first child. Probably any one of those emotional events would set you and I back for months. Now, take all of that and add the normal, day-to-day pressures of simply being Tiger Woods and you have the formula for a total collapse, or at the very least a club throwing hissy fit.
There have been difficulties, sure, but no collapse, or hissy fit. He is still the leading money winner on Tour and the number one ranked player in the world, so what’s the worry?
The answer is simple; he’s starting to look human, even vulnerable.
Remember Mike Tyson before Buster Douglas? He wasn’t human, he was unbeatable, invincible, the scariest man on the planet. But, somehow he lost to Buster and he was no longer invincible and very human. Within the count of ten, Mike Tyson started down that road of “no respect,” which he never recovered from.
Tiger is not Mike Tyson (thank God), but he is starting to look human and that is a dangerous territory for an intimidator, any intimidator. Competitively, Tiger was like Tyson. He carried the aura of invincibility. People didn’t believe that they could beat him and as long as they felt that way they couldn’t. Now, he’s lost to a fat boy from Argentina and last week he was never in the hunt. And there have been other signs. Granted, two weeks does not a season make, and as I said before he is still the leading money winner on Tour and the number one ranked player in the world, but I’m worried.
As good as Tiger is, and I certainly believe that he is the best golfer in the world, I don’t believe that he can simply show up and win. Perhaps he can show up and finish in the top-ten, and frankly he maybe that good, but I hope that’s not the plan. I want to see Tiger be Tiger. I want to see the best golfer in the world be as good as he can possibly be every time he tees it up; that why’s I am proposing that Tiger should get a divorce.
I’m selfish; I don’t want Tiger to be human, or married, or a father. I want him to be the greatest golfer in the world 24/7. Remember, Joe DiMaggio waited until after his career was over before he married Marilyn Monroe. Would “The Yankee Clipper” have had a 56 game hitting streak with Marilyn whispering in his ear? I think not.
High jumper Dwight Stone talked about pacing himself because he was receiving a check every time he broke the world record. Using this tactic he set the world record six or seven times, but he never jumped as high as he could because he was always saving room for another world record and another check. Later on he said how much he regretted not putting the bar as high as he could when he could.
Tiger is in his prime and now is not the time to start pacing himself. Now is the time to see how high he can set the bar, and I want to watch. So the only reasonable answer is to get a divorce. Certainly, this might create a hardship for wife Elin and Sam Alexis Woods, but nothing comforts hardships like a zillion dollars in the bank.
I agree that my expectations of Tiger are not fair. Like any other human being he should be able to marry, raise a family and enjoy his $100,000,012.54 when and where he sees fit. But my advice to him is the same as I gave my friend some years ago, “Stop shooting pool and drinking beer and go to work.”
Like it or not, you’re a supernatural being, so let your mom baby-sit, send Elin to Rodeo Drive and get yourself to the driving range before the British Open.
Being the sage that I am I answered, “Because it’s 2:30 on Tuesday afternoon and we’re shooting pool and drinking beer instead of working.”
Okay, now imagine that you’re Tiger Woods and you look down at your bank account and you see $100,000,012.54. Are you tempted to roll over and hit the snooze alarm for ten years or so? To me, that has always been the real difference between Tiger Woods and everybody else; he never seemed to reach for the snooze alarm. He is not only the most talented player in the world; he is also one of the hardest workers, as well.
But are things changing?
For almost two years now Tiger seems to be a little out of sync, and that’s understandable. First, there was his marriage, then the death of his father, and now the birth of his first child. Probably any one of those emotional events would set you and I back for months. Now, take all of that and add the normal, day-to-day pressures of simply being Tiger Woods and you have the formula for a total collapse, or at the very least a club throwing hissy fit.
There have been difficulties, sure, but no collapse, or hissy fit. He is still the leading money winner on Tour and the number one ranked player in the world, so what’s the worry?
The answer is simple; he’s starting to look human, even vulnerable.
Remember Mike Tyson before Buster Douglas? He wasn’t human, he was unbeatable, invincible, the scariest man on the planet. But, somehow he lost to Buster and he was no longer invincible and very human. Within the count of ten, Mike Tyson started down that road of “no respect,” which he never recovered from.
Tiger is not Mike Tyson (thank God), but he is starting to look human and that is a dangerous territory for an intimidator, any intimidator. Competitively, Tiger was like Tyson. He carried the aura of invincibility. People didn’t believe that they could beat him and as long as they felt that way they couldn’t. Now, he’s lost to a fat boy from Argentina and last week he was never in the hunt. And there have been other signs. Granted, two weeks does not a season make, and as I said before he is still the leading money winner on Tour and the number one ranked player in the world, but I’m worried.
As good as Tiger is, and I certainly believe that he is the best golfer in the world, I don’t believe that he can simply show up and win. Perhaps he can show up and finish in the top-ten, and frankly he maybe that good, but I hope that’s not the plan. I want to see Tiger be Tiger. I want to see the best golfer in the world be as good as he can possibly be every time he tees it up; that why’s I am proposing that Tiger should get a divorce.
I’m selfish; I don’t want Tiger to be human, or married, or a father. I want him to be the greatest golfer in the world 24/7. Remember, Joe DiMaggio waited until after his career was over before he married Marilyn Monroe. Would “The Yankee Clipper” have had a 56 game hitting streak with Marilyn whispering in his ear? I think not.
High jumper Dwight Stone talked about pacing himself because he was receiving a check every time he broke the world record. Using this tactic he set the world record six or seven times, but he never jumped as high as he could because he was always saving room for another world record and another check. Later on he said how much he regretted not putting the bar as high as he could when he could.
Tiger is in his prime and now is not the time to start pacing himself. Now is the time to see how high he can set the bar, and I want to watch. So the only reasonable answer is to get a divorce. Certainly, this might create a hardship for wife Elin and Sam Alexis Woods, but nothing comforts hardships like a zillion dollars in the bank.
I agree that my expectations of Tiger are not fair. Like any other human being he should be able to marry, raise a family and enjoy his $100,000,012.54 when and where he sees fit. But my advice to him is the same as I gave my friend some years ago, “Stop shooting pool and drinking beer and go to work.”
Like it or not, you’re a supernatural being, so let your mom baby-sit, send Elin to Rodeo Drive and get yourself to the driving range before the British Open.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Growing Up A Prodigy
Having never been a prodigy of any kind it is difficult for me to understand what it must be like growing up carrying those kinds of expectations. While I was busy learning how to walk and chew gum at the same time, a 14 year old named Nadia Comaneci was sticking a perfect ten at the Olympic games.
How does anyone do that?
The soccer prodigy Freddy Adu turned pro at 14, and at 17 years, 74 days Maria Sharapova won Wimbledon. When I was 17 years, 74 days old the only thing I was serving was pancakes at the local IHOP, and soccer wasn’t even a varsity sport.
If I recall, Tiger Woods played in the Nissan Los Angeles Open when he was 16. He didn’t win, but even if he had finished dead last, which he didn’t, he was still doing better than me.
As for the importance of an education to sports prodigies, Coby and LeBron ditched college all together and you can count on one hand the number of NBA stars that graduate from any where. Granted, there are ten thousand “would be prodigies” that dropped out of school and are now working on the shipping dock, and that is sad if you believe that basketball kept them out of medical school. However, taking your shot and not succeeding is not necessarily failing, and there is nothing dishonorable about working on the dock.
Are there prodigies that don’t fulfill their promise? Sure. Would they have been better served by taking it slow, or staying in school, or firing their agents, or their coaches, or having better parents? Who can really say. Life, even the lives of prodigies, is a mixture of nature and nurture and nothing is ever decided by talent alone.
Today, I’m a lot older than 14 and I don’t have a shoe contract, nor have I ever fired an agent, and I promise you that no one has ever offered me a zillion bucks to play a game. Which brings me to the point: Am better off because of that? Gosh, I hope not.
Is Nadia Comaneci better or worse off because someone pushed her to greatness? How about Freddy or Maria, or Coby, or LeBron, or even Tiger; are they better or worse off? Certainly they are better off financially, but being “better off” can mean a lot of different things, would you agree?
How about Michelle Wie, is she better or worse off? The truth is we don’t know because all we really know is Michelle Wie the television personality and golfer, and that’s not real life. Is she embracing the life of a celebrity golfer, or does she hate it? It’s hard to tell. Some people thrive on conflict, while others need more nurturing. I don’t know Michelle’s parents, or agent and I have no idea if she is being served well by them. I do know this, even if she never plays another game of golf in her life, she is probably financially set for life. Is she ruining her potential? I don’t know. If she had waited until she was older to turn pro would she have received the same contract from Nike and the same attention from the press? Would she be a better golfer? Who can say for sure?
Can you be a prodigy and not be driven? Did Tiger Woods wake up one morning and decide to be a golfer, or did his father drive him to the driving range every day from the time he was potty trained? Perhaps obsession comes with the territory.
Has Michelle made some mistakes? Certainly. However, unlike you and I, Michelle is making her teenage mistakes on national television and that’s really difficult; just ask Lindsey Lohan. I’m trying to imagine living my teenage years on national television and how ugly that would have been.
A couple of years ago I saw Michelle Wie on Sixty Minutes. It was the same day that she got her driver’s license, if I recall. When the interviewer asked her what she liked to do most, she answered like a teenage girl that had never picked up a golfclub in her life, “I like to hang out at the mall with my friends,” she said. And, in subsequent interviews, I heard her sound exactly her age, more times than not. As a matter of fact, the only time I ever heard her sound older was when she was answering golf questions.
Without question, Michelle Wie is a prodigy, not merely because she plays golf, or because she can hit the ball a mile, she a prodigy because she is so young. She’s the bearded lady in the circus and when she shaves, or in Michelle’s case becomes older, she will no longer be the story, so there is some logic to running as fast as you can, as long as you can.
I think Michelle is going to be fine. She is enrolling at Stanford this summer. Perhaps she’ll find a guy and never play golf again, or maybe she’ll find her game and reach the potential that we all hope to witness. Whatever happens, she seems like a nice young lady and I wish her nothing but the best.
How does anyone do that?
The soccer prodigy Freddy Adu turned pro at 14, and at 17 years, 74 days Maria Sharapova won Wimbledon. When I was 17 years, 74 days old the only thing I was serving was pancakes at the local IHOP, and soccer wasn’t even a varsity sport.
If I recall, Tiger Woods played in the Nissan Los Angeles Open when he was 16. He didn’t win, but even if he had finished dead last, which he didn’t, he was still doing better than me.
As for the importance of an education to sports prodigies, Coby and LeBron ditched college all together and you can count on one hand the number of NBA stars that graduate from any where. Granted, there are ten thousand “would be prodigies” that dropped out of school and are now working on the shipping dock, and that is sad if you believe that basketball kept them out of medical school. However, taking your shot and not succeeding is not necessarily failing, and there is nothing dishonorable about working on the dock.
Are there prodigies that don’t fulfill their promise? Sure. Would they have been better served by taking it slow, or staying in school, or firing their agents, or their coaches, or having better parents? Who can really say. Life, even the lives of prodigies, is a mixture of nature and nurture and nothing is ever decided by talent alone.
Today, I’m a lot older than 14 and I don’t have a shoe contract, nor have I ever fired an agent, and I promise you that no one has ever offered me a zillion bucks to play a game. Which brings me to the point: Am better off because of that? Gosh, I hope not.
Is Nadia Comaneci better or worse off because someone pushed her to greatness? How about Freddy or Maria, or Coby, or LeBron, or even Tiger; are they better or worse off? Certainly they are better off financially, but being “better off” can mean a lot of different things, would you agree?
How about Michelle Wie, is she better or worse off? The truth is we don’t know because all we really know is Michelle Wie the television personality and golfer, and that’s not real life. Is she embracing the life of a celebrity golfer, or does she hate it? It’s hard to tell. Some people thrive on conflict, while others need more nurturing. I don’t know Michelle’s parents, or agent and I have no idea if she is being served well by them. I do know this, even if she never plays another game of golf in her life, she is probably financially set for life. Is she ruining her potential? I don’t know. If she had waited until she was older to turn pro would she have received the same contract from Nike and the same attention from the press? Would she be a better golfer? Who can say for sure?
Can you be a prodigy and not be driven? Did Tiger Woods wake up one morning and decide to be a golfer, or did his father drive him to the driving range every day from the time he was potty trained? Perhaps obsession comes with the territory.
Has Michelle made some mistakes? Certainly. However, unlike you and I, Michelle is making her teenage mistakes on national television and that’s really difficult; just ask Lindsey Lohan. I’m trying to imagine living my teenage years on national television and how ugly that would have been.
A couple of years ago I saw Michelle Wie on Sixty Minutes. It was the same day that she got her driver’s license, if I recall. When the interviewer asked her what she liked to do most, she answered like a teenage girl that had never picked up a golfclub in her life, “I like to hang out at the mall with my friends,” she said. And, in subsequent interviews, I heard her sound exactly her age, more times than not. As a matter of fact, the only time I ever heard her sound older was when she was answering golf questions.
Without question, Michelle Wie is a prodigy, not merely because she plays golf, or because she can hit the ball a mile, she a prodigy because she is so young. She’s the bearded lady in the circus and when she shaves, or in Michelle’s case becomes older, she will no longer be the story, so there is some logic to running as fast as you can, as long as you can.
I think Michelle is going to be fine. She is enrolling at Stanford this summer. Perhaps she’ll find a guy and never play golf again, or maybe she’ll find her game and reach the potential that we all hope to witness. Whatever happens, she seems like a nice young lady and I wish her nothing but the best.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Freak Luck Is A Strange Thing
In the past Argentina has been plagued by inflation, which reached 2,000 percent in 1984. By 1989 inflation had reached 5,000 percent making the nation's currency almost worthless. Imagine being in a golf tournament and the purse was $1,000,000 when you started and $10,000 when you finished?
However, recently things got much better in Argentina. The government created the nuevo peso Argentino (new Argentine peso) bringing inflation under control, and Angel Cabrera won the U.S. Open waddling home with 1,260,000 Nuevo Pesos Argentinos and the entire country shouted Ay! Caramba.
Who would have believed it? The Duck beat the Tiger, but it happened and I, as a bit of a duck myself, couldn’t be happier. Fire up another Winston, hand me that second helping of mashed potatoes, and let’s play golf. Angel Cabrera is the 2007 U.S. Open Champion. Chips and salsa one under par on Sunday, abs of steel two over. Somewhere Billy Casper is laughing, jiggling of course, but still laughing.
Cabrera didn’t win it, Tiger lost it, you say? Pour me another shot of Tequila while I disagree. He and Tiger may play a hundred times in the future and Tiger may win a hundred out of a hundred, but on those four days Angel Cabrera was the best golfer was the world, not Tiger Wood, not Jim Furyk or anybody else. It’s time to realize that your favorite nine and seven football team is not a better team than that. You are what you are. Could the 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey Team beat those commie Russian bastards again? It doesn’t matter; they have their Gold Medal just like Cabrera has his name on the trophy and 1,260,000 of Nuevo Pesos Argentinos in the bank.
As Johnny Miller waited for Furyk and then Tiger to make their moves, Angel Cabrera and his caddie sat nervously in the locker room waiting. "I was definitely feeling nervous, but I assumed that this is the same sensation everybody was having in my place," said Cabrera through an interpreter. And, it was at that very moment that I realized that had Cabrera and his caddie switched bodies perhaps Angel would be getting a little more respect. But who cares? Angel Cabrera is Lyle Lovett marrying Julia Roberts, and who wouldn’t trade their abs for that?
On 361 days this year Tiger will be the best golfer in the world, but not at the 107th U.S. Open. Is the mystique gone, or just back in Florida thinking about baby Sam that would arrive shortly? Pack away your red shirt and grab your passport for the British Open next month. Phil Mickelson will be there along with Retief, Furyk, Padraig, Ernie and Vijay, but look out for that chubby guy sitting in the smoking section.
As Rocky Balboa once said, “Freak luck is a strange thing,” so the next time you tee it up with your buddy that has beat you like a red-headed step child once a week for the last year, remember Rocky Balboa and Lyle Lovett and know that all things are possible. You are the U.S. A. Hockey Team, David with a slingshot, and yes, Angel Cabrera. So, light up that Winston, and take one more trip through the buffet line because tomorrow you could win the club championship.
Granted, it would help if you could hit the ball 390 yards like Angel Cabrera, the 2007 U.S. Open Champion.
However, recently things got much better in Argentina. The government created the nuevo peso Argentino (new Argentine peso) bringing inflation under control, and Angel Cabrera won the U.S. Open waddling home with 1,260,000 Nuevo Pesos Argentinos and the entire country shouted Ay! Caramba.
Who would have believed it? The Duck beat the Tiger, but it happened and I, as a bit of a duck myself, couldn’t be happier. Fire up another Winston, hand me that second helping of mashed potatoes, and let’s play golf. Angel Cabrera is the 2007 U.S. Open Champion. Chips and salsa one under par on Sunday, abs of steel two over. Somewhere Billy Casper is laughing, jiggling of course, but still laughing.
Cabrera didn’t win it, Tiger lost it, you say? Pour me another shot of Tequila while I disagree. He and Tiger may play a hundred times in the future and Tiger may win a hundred out of a hundred, but on those four days Angel Cabrera was the best golfer was the world, not Tiger Wood, not Jim Furyk or anybody else. It’s time to realize that your favorite nine and seven football team is not a better team than that. You are what you are. Could the 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey Team beat those commie Russian bastards again? It doesn’t matter; they have their Gold Medal just like Cabrera has his name on the trophy and 1,260,000 of Nuevo Pesos Argentinos in the bank.
As Johnny Miller waited for Furyk and then Tiger to make their moves, Angel Cabrera and his caddie sat nervously in the locker room waiting. "I was definitely feeling nervous, but I assumed that this is the same sensation everybody was having in my place," said Cabrera through an interpreter. And, it was at that very moment that I realized that had Cabrera and his caddie switched bodies perhaps Angel would be getting a little more respect. But who cares? Angel Cabrera is Lyle Lovett marrying Julia Roberts, and who wouldn’t trade their abs for that?
On 361 days this year Tiger will be the best golfer in the world, but not at the 107th U.S. Open. Is the mystique gone, or just back in Florida thinking about baby Sam that would arrive shortly? Pack away your red shirt and grab your passport for the British Open next month. Phil Mickelson will be there along with Retief, Furyk, Padraig, Ernie and Vijay, but look out for that chubby guy sitting in the smoking section.
As Rocky Balboa once said, “Freak luck is a strange thing,” so the next time you tee it up with your buddy that has beat you like a red-headed step child once a week for the last year, remember Rocky Balboa and Lyle Lovett and know that all things are possible. You are the U.S. A. Hockey Team, David with a slingshot, and yes, Angel Cabrera. So, light up that Winston, and take one more trip through the buffet line because tomorrow you could win the club championship.
Granted, it would help if you could hit the ball 390 yards like Angel Cabrera, the 2007 U.S. Open Champion.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Welcome To The Tiger Tour
Tiger Woods now has his own tournament, the AT&T National, to be played July 2 through 8 at the famous Congressional Country Club. That’s not news. However what may be news is that the golf world has pulled an end run around its own rule about appearance fees. How’s that you ask? Well, for his duties, which is basically showing up at said tournament, the Tiger Woods Foundation will receive a multi-million charitable donation no matter what Tiger does on the golf course.
Technically, that may not be an appearance fee, but when the money ends up in Tiger Wood’s control what else would you call it? Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure that the Tiger Woods Foundation does wonderful work, but that’s not the point. The fact is that Tiger’s presence in a tournament can make it or break it from a TV rating standpoint, and without TV ratings sponsors are hard to find, and without sponsors tournaments disappear.
So, what’s next? Will Phil Mickelson and his Foundation host the next FBR Open in Scottsdale? How about Vijay Singh and his Foundation hosting the Mercedes-Benz Championship in Hawaii, or Ernie Els, or Jesper Parnevik? Okay, maybe not Jesper. Granted, it may only be the top two or three players in the world that make enough difference to warrant such treatment, or their maybe there’s only one, but how many Tournaments would plop down a sizable chartable donation if it would guarantee that Tiger Woods would play in their tournament?
Consider how few tournaments the top players actually play in these days. Now consider how many spots on their dance card are already filled with four majors, plus the Players. Now add to that the World Golf Championships, the Tour Championship. Then comes the money games like the million bucks Tiger and others get for showing up in Dubai and Asia. Now don’t forget that Tiger plays in two Buick events, plus the AT&T National, just like Phil plays in the American Express sponsored tournaments. Then there are Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer’s tournaments, which most attend. Now, factor in that the big name players don’t like to play more than three weeks in row and what have you got?
The answer is very little room for any other tournaments.
So, what’s the harm? Perhaps there is none, or perhaps Tiger, Phil, Ernie and the boys are becoming their own tour and in doing so relegating the regular PGA Tour to non superstar status and that would worry me if I were ranked number 75 in the world. Because with relegation comes less exposure followed by less money and less opportunity. How many tournaments already have limited exposure because they are only seen on the Golf Channel?
Again, so what? What does Tiger and all of the others owe to golf? Actually, everything; without golf Tiger is selling real estate, Phil is on the Poker Tour and Ernie is a potato farmer in South Africa. Politicians and CEOs get in trouble when they think they are the smartest guys in the room. Athletes get in trouble when they start thinking that they are bigger than the game.
Last year the PGA Tour touted that they had raised a billion bucks for charity and that’s admirable. But what happens if this new order takes hold? Sure, Tiger’s Foundation will get its money and so will Phil’s, but what about the dozens of other charities that are left out in the cold? Who got their share? Tiger, Phil and Tim Finchem should remember that golf did not invent the big buck charity golf tournament; charity invented the big buck golf tournament.
Sometimes when the banquet table is too big you forget who bought the groceries.
Technically, that may not be an appearance fee, but when the money ends up in Tiger Wood’s control what else would you call it? Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure that the Tiger Woods Foundation does wonderful work, but that’s not the point. The fact is that Tiger’s presence in a tournament can make it or break it from a TV rating standpoint, and without TV ratings sponsors are hard to find, and without sponsors tournaments disappear.
So, what’s next? Will Phil Mickelson and his Foundation host the next FBR Open in Scottsdale? How about Vijay Singh and his Foundation hosting the Mercedes-Benz Championship in Hawaii, or Ernie Els, or Jesper Parnevik? Okay, maybe not Jesper. Granted, it may only be the top two or three players in the world that make enough difference to warrant such treatment, or their maybe there’s only one, but how many Tournaments would plop down a sizable chartable donation if it would guarantee that Tiger Woods would play in their tournament?
Consider how few tournaments the top players actually play in these days. Now consider how many spots on their dance card are already filled with four majors, plus the Players. Now add to that the World Golf Championships, the Tour Championship. Then comes the money games like the million bucks Tiger and others get for showing up in Dubai and Asia. Now don’t forget that Tiger plays in two Buick events, plus the AT&T National, just like Phil plays in the American Express sponsored tournaments. Then there are Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer’s tournaments, which most attend. Now, factor in that the big name players don’t like to play more than three weeks in row and what have you got?
The answer is very little room for any other tournaments.
So, what’s the harm? Perhaps there is none, or perhaps Tiger, Phil, Ernie and the boys are becoming their own tour and in doing so relegating the regular PGA Tour to non superstar status and that would worry me if I were ranked number 75 in the world. Because with relegation comes less exposure followed by less money and less opportunity. How many tournaments already have limited exposure because they are only seen on the Golf Channel?
Again, so what? What does Tiger and all of the others owe to golf? Actually, everything; without golf Tiger is selling real estate, Phil is on the Poker Tour and Ernie is a potato farmer in South Africa. Politicians and CEOs get in trouble when they think they are the smartest guys in the room. Athletes get in trouble when they start thinking that they are bigger than the game.
Last year the PGA Tour touted that they had raised a billion bucks for charity and that’s admirable. But what happens if this new order takes hold? Sure, Tiger’s Foundation will get its money and so will Phil’s, but what about the dozens of other charities that are left out in the cold? Who got their share? Tiger, Phil and Tim Finchem should remember that golf did not invent the big buck charity golf tournament; charity invented the big buck golf tournament.
Sometimes when the banquet table is too big you forget who bought the groceries.
Drive For Show, Putt For Dough
His brother Rick Dempsey is perhaps the better-known athlete, but Pat Dempsey has an even bigger swing than baseball’s 1983 World Series MVP. At about six-foot four inches tall and maybe 240 pounds, Pat Dempsey is built like a brick caddie shack and swings a golf club like Conan The Barbarian swings a two-handed sword.
Pat and I met a couple of years ago at a charity golf tournament where he was hitting drives for charity. For twenty dollars Pat would launch one into the stratosphere for you. Playing with a foursome that was born in the middle of the last century, we were more than anxious to purchase his distance, so we coughed-up the twenty bucks and then watched Pat do his thing.
To say Pat swings hard would be like saying Steve Nash can shoot free throws. It is absolutely violent to the point of making the spectators flinch, and I know because I was the head flincher. And, when someone said that he killed that one, it didn’t seem like a metaphor. Forget the long, smooth under control swing; this was pure violence.
As a special treat, Pat also did his impression of Happy Gilmore starting his pre-shot routine by jogging toward the ball before striking his mighty blow. As the ball sailed down the fairway I secretly wondered what must it be like to scare other golfers and small children with my drive; to reach every par five in two; to carry every bunker; to laugh in the face of water hazards? If I could hit a ball like that would my wife still make me take out the trash? I think not.
As we approached our charity ball at about 365 yards out I glanced back at Pat who was lighting a celebratory cigar and laughing like Arnold Swarzenegger. “I’ll be back,” I thought I heard him shout.
With only a sand wedge left to the green and with four shots at it, you probably think we’d pitch it up there for an easy birdie, but if I recall we didn’t get a ball inside of ten feet with four chances. Save for a putt that did a 360 around the hole before falling in we almost blew the whole deal.
Pat is still hitting the long ball but now as Captain of UST’s Long Drive Team as well as a competitor in the senior division of Long Driver of America and the RE/MAX Long Drive Championship. The Team is doing really well this year with five of six team members already qualifying for the World Championship. For the record, they’re swinging UST’s V2 Long Drive shaft designed especially for long drive and other competitive gorilla activities.
I don’t have a list of future Long Driver of America Tournaments or the requirement to enter, but I bet if you pay an entry fee and go through qualifying you can join the testosterone exhibitions. However, before you quit your day job and jump out there you should know that the flat-belly record holder, better known as the Open Division, is Jason Zuback with a blast of 412+ yards. Interestingly, Zuback is also the shortest Champion standing a mere five-foot nine inches. Just for the record, Viktor Johansson is the tallest Champion at six-foot six inches. Nancy Abiecunas is the woman’s record holder with a drive of 332+ yards, and coincidentaly she is also the shortest women champion at five-foot ten inches, an inch taller than the shortest men’s record holder. The tallest lady Champion is Stacey Shinnick at six-feet two inches.
Just imagine the mixed scramble team you could put together.
The leading money winner on the Tour is Dave Gureckis with $69,350 for his entire career. That is correct; that’s his career earnings not annual. Our friend Pat Dempsey has earned $58,070 over about ten years of competing. Don’t get me wrong, fifty thousand bucks is a nice bonus, but you might want to keep the day job, which I assume all of these men and women do.
So, I guess it’s true that you drive for show and putt for dough, but there seems to be more to it than money. I think these men and women really love the thrill of hitting the big one, and come to think of it, so do most of us. What’s a lay up?
The one question that everyone always wants to ask is what kind of golfers are these guys? Pretty good, actually. Pat, like many of the other long drive guys, is a scratch golfer, but the other side of that coin is that just about every club pro in America is also a scratch golfer. So then, how good are Tiger, Phil and the rest of those guys all the way to the Nationwide Tour who play golf for a living… really, really good.
Let’s put it this way, Sean O’Hair could spot most of us an eight on seventeen at Sawgrass and still beat the crap out of most of us, and he might even win the long drive contest, as well.
Pat and I met a couple of years ago at a charity golf tournament where he was hitting drives for charity. For twenty dollars Pat would launch one into the stratosphere for you. Playing with a foursome that was born in the middle of the last century, we were more than anxious to purchase his distance, so we coughed-up the twenty bucks and then watched Pat do his thing.
To say Pat swings hard would be like saying Steve Nash can shoot free throws. It is absolutely violent to the point of making the spectators flinch, and I know because I was the head flincher. And, when someone said that he killed that one, it didn’t seem like a metaphor. Forget the long, smooth under control swing; this was pure violence.
As a special treat, Pat also did his impression of Happy Gilmore starting his pre-shot routine by jogging toward the ball before striking his mighty blow. As the ball sailed down the fairway I secretly wondered what must it be like to scare other golfers and small children with my drive; to reach every par five in two; to carry every bunker; to laugh in the face of water hazards? If I could hit a ball like that would my wife still make me take out the trash? I think not.
As we approached our charity ball at about 365 yards out I glanced back at Pat who was lighting a celebratory cigar and laughing like Arnold Swarzenegger. “I’ll be back,” I thought I heard him shout.
With only a sand wedge left to the green and with four shots at it, you probably think we’d pitch it up there for an easy birdie, but if I recall we didn’t get a ball inside of ten feet with four chances. Save for a putt that did a 360 around the hole before falling in we almost blew the whole deal.
Pat is still hitting the long ball but now as Captain of UST’s Long Drive Team as well as a competitor in the senior division of Long Driver of America and the RE/MAX Long Drive Championship. The Team is doing really well this year with five of six team members already qualifying for the World Championship. For the record, they’re swinging UST’s V2 Long Drive shaft designed especially for long drive and other competitive gorilla activities.
I don’t have a list of future Long Driver of America Tournaments or the requirement to enter, but I bet if you pay an entry fee and go through qualifying you can join the testosterone exhibitions. However, before you quit your day job and jump out there you should know that the flat-belly record holder, better known as the Open Division, is Jason Zuback with a blast of 412+ yards. Interestingly, Zuback is also the shortest Champion standing a mere five-foot nine inches. Just for the record, Viktor Johansson is the tallest Champion at six-foot six inches. Nancy Abiecunas is the woman’s record holder with a drive of 332+ yards, and coincidentaly she is also the shortest women champion at five-foot ten inches, an inch taller than the shortest men’s record holder. The tallest lady Champion is Stacey Shinnick at six-feet two inches.
Just imagine the mixed scramble team you could put together.
The leading money winner on the Tour is Dave Gureckis with $69,350 for his entire career. That is correct; that’s his career earnings not annual. Our friend Pat Dempsey has earned $58,070 over about ten years of competing. Don’t get me wrong, fifty thousand bucks is a nice bonus, but you might want to keep the day job, which I assume all of these men and women do.
So, I guess it’s true that you drive for show and putt for dough, but there seems to be more to it than money. I think these men and women really love the thrill of hitting the big one, and come to think of it, so do most of us. What’s a lay up?
The one question that everyone always wants to ask is what kind of golfers are these guys? Pretty good, actually. Pat, like many of the other long drive guys, is a scratch golfer, but the other side of that coin is that just about every club pro in America is also a scratch golfer. So then, how good are Tiger, Phil and the rest of those guys all the way to the Nationwide Tour who play golf for a living… really, really good.
Let’s put it this way, Sean O’Hair could spot most of us an eight on seventeen at Sawgrass and still beat the crap out of most of us, and he might even win the long drive contest, as well.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Golf And These Desperate Times
The logic seemed sound; I would surprise my wife with new golf clubs and lessons. It would be a great Christmas gift that she would use to gain an appreciation for the beauty and difficulty of the great game. Ultimately, that appreciation would translate into playing only when we were on vacation and in the meantime she would return to shoe shopping with a carefully crafted understanding of why I’m playing golf instead of retiling the bathroom. Perhaps I didn’t think it through.
And, the look on her face on Christmas morning quickly confirmed that fact. In her defense, I should say that she is not a violent woman, but had she been, I could visualize her beating me to death with a brand-new Ping five-iron that fateful Christmas morning. Obviously, her grip would have been a little strong because she had not taken her lesson as yet, but I would have been just as dead.
Perhaps the situation was exacerbated by the sheer size of the package and the stupid smile on my face; but trust me, after a woman wrestles a giant package to the ground looking for who knows what and finds you know what, she is not very happy. In all likelihood, the situation was made worse because I had just opened her package to me containing a $2,000 Giorgio Armani jacket that I had coveted for months. Don’t get me wrong, I love golf, but Armani defiantly trumps Ping.
So, where is the lesson here? Is it to never buy your wife golf clubs and lesson for Christmas, or is there a bigger more profound message to be learned? The answer is “yes” to both questions, but there is also a tactical question at hand. Remember the circumstance; there I was on Christmas morning; I had just snap-hooked my drive into the deep woods. The easy thing to do would be to pitch it back into the fairway, take my punishment and move on, but I didn’t get to where I am by laying up, so I took dead aim through the trees and let it fly. Then, as the tears welled-up in her eyes, I boldly announced that her first golf lesson would be in Cabo San Lucas.
It was like watching a great golf shot as her arms went around my neck. I saw the ball emerge from the hazard, land softly on the green and roll to within two-feet of the hole for an easy birdie. Granted, I could have gone for an emotional eagle but that would have likely cost me a trip to Europe.
Okay, I hear you. It was a bad premise to begin with because I really don’t want to play golf with my wife or any other woman for that matter. It is not because it is a sacred game as much as it is because golf resides in a sacred place called “guy-time,” that most sacred of all places where we scratch, spit and cuss at will. It is that place where your best friend's nickname describes at least one of his inadequacies. It is that holiest of places where you don’t care if your shirt is wrinkled or has a Gatorade stain down the front, or, you have terminal hat-hair; those things have zero importance in Guy-time.
In a world filled with equal rights, women executives, and unisex barbershops, guy-time is in danger. Once safe bastions of manhood such as golf, football and fishing are under attack and in grave danger of being neutered. The enemy of guy-time is women with their never ending list of domestic chores and “us-time.” Mow the grass, fix the sink, and turn on the TV and watch “Dancing With The Stars” with me; is there no end to this assault?
Reading the latest golf stats, perhaps it is too late for you and me. The number of people playing golf is not growing. The simple answer is to make sure that you teach your son the great game of golf, and if that fails invite a NASCAR guy to play.
These are desperate times.
And, the look on her face on Christmas morning quickly confirmed that fact. In her defense, I should say that she is not a violent woman, but had she been, I could visualize her beating me to death with a brand-new Ping five-iron that fateful Christmas morning. Obviously, her grip would have been a little strong because she had not taken her lesson as yet, but I would have been just as dead.
Perhaps the situation was exacerbated by the sheer size of the package and the stupid smile on my face; but trust me, after a woman wrestles a giant package to the ground looking for who knows what and finds you know what, she is not very happy. In all likelihood, the situation was made worse because I had just opened her package to me containing a $2,000 Giorgio Armani jacket that I had coveted for months. Don’t get me wrong, I love golf, but Armani defiantly trumps Ping.
So, where is the lesson here? Is it to never buy your wife golf clubs and lesson for Christmas, or is there a bigger more profound message to be learned? The answer is “yes” to both questions, but there is also a tactical question at hand. Remember the circumstance; there I was on Christmas morning; I had just snap-hooked my drive into the deep woods. The easy thing to do would be to pitch it back into the fairway, take my punishment and move on, but I didn’t get to where I am by laying up, so I took dead aim through the trees and let it fly. Then, as the tears welled-up in her eyes, I boldly announced that her first golf lesson would be in Cabo San Lucas.
It was like watching a great golf shot as her arms went around my neck. I saw the ball emerge from the hazard, land softly on the green and roll to within two-feet of the hole for an easy birdie. Granted, I could have gone for an emotional eagle but that would have likely cost me a trip to Europe.
Okay, I hear you. It was a bad premise to begin with because I really don’t want to play golf with my wife or any other woman for that matter. It is not because it is a sacred game as much as it is because golf resides in a sacred place called “guy-time,” that most sacred of all places where we scratch, spit and cuss at will. It is that place where your best friend's nickname describes at least one of his inadequacies. It is that holiest of places where you don’t care if your shirt is wrinkled or has a Gatorade stain down the front, or, you have terminal hat-hair; those things have zero importance in Guy-time.
In a world filled with equal rights, women executives, and unisex barbershops, guy-time is in danger. Once safe bastions of manhood such as golf, football and fishing are under attack and in grave danger of being neutered. The enemy of guy-time is women with their never ending list of domestic chores and “us-time.” Mow the grass, fix the sink, and turn on the TV and watch “Dancing With The Stars” with me; is there no end to this assault?
Reading the latest golf stats, perhaps it is too late for you and me. The number of people playing golf is not growing. The simple answer is to make sure that you teach your son the great game of golf, and if that fails invite a NASCAR guy to play.
These are desperate times.
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